


Merger

by terabient



Category: Ghost in the Shell
Genre: F/M, Forced Orgasm, Masturbation, Mind Meld, Other, Sharing a Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-09
Updated: 2009-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terabient/pseuds/terabient
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a quiet morning, Motoko finds she is not alone in her cybernetic shell. (For the spring_kink prompt: "Hackers/Motoko: Techno, Mind/Body Control – Letting her guard down for a moment was all it took.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merger

**Author's Note:**

> While this takes place in the Ghost in the Shell: SAC universe, I took the concept of "e-sex" from the manga. In that continuity, "e-sex" is the (illegal) act of sharing sexual stimuli through a direct cyberbrain connection. It is considered particularly dangerous between members of the opposite sex due to the risk of accidentally stimulating body parts that the other partner does not have, which can cause extreme pain in the recipient. (Although, *that* particular facet doesn't come into play here.)

The incident occurs in the early morning. Motoko lies on her bed, half-dressed, lazily waiting for her alarm clock to go off before she starts to truly prepare for the day.

The hacker takes control in the space of a breath.

Motoko's only warning is the strange sensation of ice water trickling into her cyberbrain: her first thought is not of hacking, but a mild worry that there may be a leak in her cooling systems.

She realizes she has been hacked when her sensitivity sensors are suddenly maxed out.

Motoko's synthetic skin can pick up tactile sensations far more subtle than what human flesh can perceive, but she rarely takes advantage of her enhanced senses; they are too overwhelming for practical, everyday use. When maxed out the intensity and number of sensory inputs puts her cyberbrain at risk of overload.

This in mind, Motoko stays still, limiting the number of sensations possible. Even so she cannot help from being stimulated: her body is acutely aware of the thin cotton abrading the softness of her bare breasts, of silk pressed against the softer, smoother flesh of her slit. Motoko takes a deep, calming breath; the movement of supple, damp lips parting makes her tremble.

The hacker compels her to speak, his control like frostbitten fingers clutching her brain.

“Fascinating,” Motoko says: her voice, not her words. “Your body is more advanced than I anticipated.” Her hand lifts, caresses the elegant curve of her neck. “And far lovelier in person than from afar.”

 _Who are you,_ she asks, but the question never leaves her mouth. Motoko notes, with the detached interest of a detective, that the hacker does not crush her thought processes completely. It—he?--allows her to think, to control her body—he simply overrides her orders when he wants to. She wonders why.

“I'm just an admirer,” the invader says, using her voice again, though the cool, clipped tone she has developed over the years is gone. Her hacker-controlled voice is low, sultry, the voice of a seducer. “Someone who's been watching you for a long time, Motoko Kusinagi.”

Her hand moves lower, pausing at the small nightshirt she wears before gripping the flimsy fabric and tearing it open, baring her breasts. Motoko bites her lip to keep from crying out, the cool morning air almost painful on her hypersensitive skin.

 _Why don't you go over to that mirror,_ the hacker whispers in her brain. Motoko's body, unresisting, complies. She sees her reflection—heavy breasts bared and free, nipples just beginning to peak, sheer silken panties drawn tight over buttocks and womanhood—and licks her lips, pleased, hungry, wanting to feel the weight of her own breasts in her hands, wanting to tease her warm, waiting slit, wanting herself in a way that feels--

 _You aren't hijacking,_ Motoko realizes. _You're merging. This is_ your _desire I feel._

“Yes,” the hacker says. Her voice, again.

 _But merging is dangerous. Painful. Why--_

“It isn't painful, if you take the time to get it right,” Motoko answers herself. She lifts her hands again, cupping and squeezing her breasts, rolling hardening nipples with the pads of her fingers. Motoko pants, lips parting wider as if to welcome another's kiss.

 _Merging,_ she thinks through the haze of pleasure, _this makes things—harder._ Cyber hijacking merely requires the hacker to shut out the victim's ghost from her cyberbrain: merging blurs the lines between the ghosts of invader and invaded. She must find the hacker's physical location, but merged as they are, he will know what she is doing should she leave her body completely, and will be able to stop her.

She must keep a part of her ghost in her shell, enough to keep the hacker from discovering what she is doing. Traversing the 'net will be even more difficult than usual: the vast streams of information that constantly threaten to tear a ghost's essence apart are hard enough to surf without her body under hyperstimulation that makes concentration almost impossible.

Palms gliding over her toned, flat stomach wrench Motoko away from her plans, back to the pleasure running from her sensors straight to her brain. Motoko's hands trace her hips, slide to her back before dipping under the band of her panties to grope at the firm curve of her buttocks. She spreads her cheeks briefly, whimpering at the feel of taut flesh moving under smooth silk.

“You're incredible,” she groans huskily. “There's no difference between this and a normal body...” The sensation of ice trickling into her mind grows more pronounced; she rubs her thighs together, the inner folds of her slit growing wet with arousal.

Motoko concentrates on the chill tendrils worming into her cyberbrain. A part of her ghost slips into the cold stream of the hacker's consciousness, seeking out its source.

Long, slender fingers dip into Motoko's hot, wet slit; her inner walls clutch at them eagerly. “You even get wet like a real woman,” she hears herself marvel, and it takes all of her strength to keep the stimulation from overwhelming her. Motoko mentally treads for a moment, focusing on nothing more than holding her ghost together and the trail of ice leading to her violator.

In her apartment, Motoko's prosthetic body falls to her knees, fingers working in and out of her slit rapidly, waves of intense pleasure washing through her brain, her ghost. She mutes the sensations as best she can. She needs to hurry—there is no telling if-- _when_ \--the hacker will grow tired of simply pleasuring him—her— _them?_ \--selves, and begin to consider the other opportunities that control of a state-of-the-art android offers.

Motoko reaches the end of the stream. The hacker's cyberbrain, she finds, is open, completely unguarded. The fact startles her at first, though as she thinks it through, it makes sense. Had the merger been successful, there would be no Motoko left to attempt a counterhack.

His ghost isn't whole. Merging necessitates most of his consciousness be involved in the act itself; only faint traces of his mind remain as an anchor.

But traces are all Motoko needs.

Methodically, Motoko closes off the neural and cybernetic passages leading to the hacker's brain, until the only way in or out is through her. She reaches out with ethereal mental fingers to grasp the fragments of the hacker's ghost.

 _what_

The ghost caught within her own shakes.

 _Found you,_ she murmurs.

A rush of chill water strikes at her ghost—the hacker trying to return, to make himself whole, only to find his way blocked by Motoko's far stronger consciousness. Back in Motoko's apartment, a woman's body crumples to the floor, her hands stilled at the cusp of her climax. Please—let me in.

 _Hmm, I'm not sure I should,_ she contemplates, slowly shredding his ghost apart. _Merging is an illegal act, you know. And hacking high-level government workers has_ very _severe penalties._

 _You can't leave me_ —here. _Out in the web—nothing stays whole for long._

 _Hmm, maybe you should have thought about that before._

Neatly, Motoko shatters his soul.

The invasive cold seeps away.

Motoko returns to her body, alone now. Her tactile sensors are still at their highest settings; she moans as a thousand different sensations bombard her mind. Without thought, she strokes herself, caressing soft, glistening folds, rubbing her clit, until she finally climaxes, her cry echoing throughout her empty apartment.

Motoko turns to lie on her back, gazing at the ceiling. She sets her sensors back to normal levels, takes deep, calming breaths. False sweat dries on her synthetic flesh.

Her alarm clock rings, signaling the start of another day at work. Motoko rises from the floor and begins to dress.

 _Filing a report for this incident,_ she thinks, _is going to be a bitch._


End file.
